Black and Grey
by Bonzodog
Summary: His funeral certainly wasn’t what he wanted. He’d no doubt want something big and impressive, then something stupid like ‘one last hug’ from everyone. Not all black and grey. But that's how it was." It's been a year since JD died. Dr Cox thinks. Angst.


Hola

**Hola! It's moi. Well, duh. Who else would I be? John C McGinley? I wish; I could just stare in the mirror all day. Anyways, I've been on a little trip over to Live Journal and there are some GREAT Whose Line Is It Anyway? fics. There are some really deep stories over there. They make me cry! And for a happy person, I write and read way too much angst. Huh well, it's just too fun to make Dr C suffer.**

**Little AU bits:**

**Dr Cox and Jordan aren't together**

**This is in second person, which his the hardest to get right. So this is probably awful. Inspired by a bloody amazing Whose Line? fic, which was written in second. Imitation being the highest form of flattery, yada yada. But the person who wrote it got the 2****nd**** person idea from a Scrubs fic, so I think I'm justified. Ah hem. Anyway, enjoy.**

You know this is really stupid. You know that fully well. But that doesn't stop you staring at the bottle like it holds the secrets to the universe. Your pour yet another glass. It's your fifth drink today but overall? You'd say it totals a few hundred, at the very least. The amber liquid swirls in the glass, sloshing up the sides like an ocean in a storm. The bitter liquid stings your throat as you swallow, but that doesn't stop you. If this will make the pain go away, you're damned well going to keep on going. You used to do this all the time, could easily drink and drink and drink. You don't know why it's so hard now, why your throat is closing up and your eyes are burning. You force one last swallow, and whimper slightly as it goes down. You should be stronger than this. It's not your fault, you have to remember. It's his, all his. For going and doing that to you. It hurts your head to think about all this, but maybe it only hurts because you're still slamming it against the wall. The sharp, sudden pain should clear your mind but it doesn't. All that happens is the thoughts overlap and mix up and you're not sure which way's up and which way's down, or what is wrong and what is right. You're not even sure who is dead and who is alive. Are you alive? You're not quite sure. At the moment, you only know one thing. And that's that you need another drink.

You're not sure why you're here, standing in Sacred Heart's waiting room. Hold on, that's wrong. You do know. You know it's because you sat every damn exam and did every thing you could to escape from home, from your father, from everything. Day by day, you were crushed a little more and a little more, until you end up here: as bitter as the alcohol swirling through your veins. You hiccup lightly, swaying in the breeze as someone opens the door. Your head is really hurting now. It's half the hangover, and you're not quite sure if it's even possible to be drunk and hangover at the same time, but if anyone can manage it, you can. So you take a deep breath and hope the room stops spinning around. It doesn't. It's obvious you won't be working today, but that okay. You try to ignore the interns that ask you what medication Mr Burton is on, or why they can't fit Mrs Bird's IV drip, or why no one will help them. You try but you can't seem to get anything right. So you snap. Tell them to use their eyes and read Mr Burton's chart, that they can't fit Mrs Bird's IV because they're idiots, and that no one will help them because the world hates the world, and everybody hates everyone. You sure as hell hate everyone. Yourself, most of all. You're an easy person to hate. The dipshit, the jackass, the jerk. You've heard it all and none of it pierces your skin anymore. Well, not visibly at least. Your cuts, your scars, they're on the inside. Where you hope no one will ever find them.

You slide along to the room, hoping no one you know notices. You don't know that many people any more. The surgeon and Carla moved a while ago, away from memories. Dr Reid has long gone too, moving to her own hospital. Last thing you heard she's well on her way to becoming a Chief of Medicine. Speaking of old Bobbo, Satan, he's doing fine. You wonder if he is an unfeeling, uncaring, robot. How can he be calm after what happened? How can he keep going, day after day after day? You shrug, not sure, not really trusting your own thoughts not to wander off. And the last thing you want is to break down crying in front of the people that fear you. You sniff once, twice, then continue walking. If only you had somewhere to go. Somehow, as if by magnet, you're drawn to the room. His old room. The bed is made, and a brunette smiles from her wheelchair. Her husband grins and wheels her out, peering from under red curls. You shudder, and turn away. That, in a strange, parallel way, could have been you two. You stare at the chart, abandoned by the window. Carol Peters. And that just hammers it home a little bit more, that she's called Carol. He hated that name, and you knew it. He always was fun to tease. Carol will be going home like normal. She tripped and fell from her balcony. She's gonna be okay. You stare at the couple. Her husband carries the bags, thanks every nurse and every doctor he sees. You smile, albeit sadly. Another life saved, another happy ending. Too bad there's not one for you.

You glance at your wrist out of habit, before realising you left your watch at home. You growl slightly, something you shouldn't do as it makes you sound like an idiot. _He_ had always said that. Shit, when did you start listening to him? You shake thoughts away, the same thoughts that come at night and drape themselves over you, the thoughts that whisper and howl till tears run down your face. You collect yourself, take a deep breath and step into the room. It could only have been yesterday a man lay in the bed, crumpled sheets tossed and torn as the doctors fought for him. Of course, it wasn't yesterday. It was 395 days, 2 hours and 29 minutes since he stopped breathing. Happy anniversary, death. You shudder at the memory. You've got to stop that, learn to stop the flow of memories. After all, that's all they are. What happened. And what happened can't be changed, as much as you prayed for days, weeks, months afterwards, that you would awake and he'd be asleep. You'd nudge him, just to check he was still there. And he'd grumble, and demand why you woke him. And you'd have to tell him you weren't sure, because sane people didn't just go around waking others just to check they were breathing. He'd call you an idiot and tell you to go back to sleep, wrapping his arms around you. You spent a long time perfecting that daydream. If only reality were anything like it. You leave the room, his room, pocketing something as you go. You know your next stop.

The bar is empty. If it were a cowboy movie, you would be able to see tumbleweeds rolling across the bar. You walk up to the bar, slowly as you can. You sit on the stool you always sat on, the one next to his. His isn't particularly special. It's not covered in gold, or diamonds, or rubies. It's just a barstool, worn and torn and graffitied. But that's irrelevant, because in your mind nothing is truly special unless he touched it. The barman is giving you funny looks: probably because you're staring at a tatty old stool like it's the eighth wonder of the world.

"Can I serve you?" he asks. Damn right he can. Another few litres of alcohol sloshing around your veins would make everything better, right? But instead of demanding a scotch, you raise your head limply and say something, the first thing that came to mind. The poor man looks really confused then, but makes you one all the same. He places something in front of you, and you see what you ordered. It's an appletini. You hold back the urge to cry, because strong people don't cry over women's drinks. Instead you take a drink from it, surprised that you quite like the taste. God, he would have mocked you, if he could see you know: holding back tears in a grungy bar, with an appletini. You get up and leave when the barman's not looking. He doesn't run after you, demand you pay. He's probably glad you're gone. You have to be gone. You have one place left to visit.

The grave is not a nice one. There are no pictures, no statues. You would hardly notice it. Right at the back of the cemetery, through hundreds of other graves, hundreds of other lives. You can't help staring as you pass. Died age 92. Died age 69. Age 64, age 81, age 74, age 90. Of course, not all the graves read that. God no. Some are seven year olds, twenty year olds. But all the same. 31 was too young to die. Far, far too young. You stare at the gray stone jutting from the ground, the edges crumbling. A year. Shit. Can it really have been a year since you eyed up the bottle of sleeping pills in the corner, wondering if sleeping forever was really that bad if he was there to share your bed? A year since you saw the doctor's blood stained scrubs and you looked at his face and you just_ knew_? And you were right. He was gone. The thoughts are threatening to take you over. It's raining lightly and you never noticed. You crouch down beside the grave, absent mindedly pulling at the grass around it. You begin to make a proper job of it, pulling out the dandelions and blades of grass growing over his grave. You wonder why it hasn't been taken care of. It was this plain a year ago, but now it's crumbling and weed covered. Surely someone from the hospital must have cared enough to come and visit him? _What, like you do? _A voice taunts in your head. _When was the last time you came here?_ You haven't visited since the funeral. You ignore the voice and finish tidying the grave.

You stare at the engraving on the stone. All it says is

**John Michael Dorian**

**Died age 31**

What does that say about him? Nothing. This gravestone would not be what he wanted. His funeral certainly wasn't what he wanted. He'd no doubt want something big and impressive, then something stupid like 'one last hug' from everyone. Not all black and grey. But that's how it was. Everything was black and grey. The funeral, the coffin, the gravestone. So plain, so dull- not like _him _at all. You have really got to stop saying 'him' like he was a god or something. The gravestone really should say more on it. That bothers you. You get up again, brushing wet grass from your jeans. It's pouring it down now, soaking you. You pick up the dandelions you pulled from the ground, and lay them on the grave in a bunch. They're not roses or tulips, but you don't have any money on you right now, so they'll do. You almost cry as you look at the tiny pathetic flowers, so different to the huge bunches of flowers on the other graves. But then again you never really 'got' roses. _Hey, I love you, so have a spiky plant and cut yourself on the thorns_. You smile slightly (but only slightly) at that, then look back to the gravestone. It really doesn't have much on it at all. You pull out the scalpel you took from the hospital. You took it for far less acceptable reasons. But you've decided you prefer your wrists without scars. You lean over and begin carving on the stone. It's hard and hurts your hands, but you keep on going. Eventually you stand back and look at your handiwork happily. You realise it has begun to get dark, and wonder how long you've been here for. Either way, you'd better get going. You're pulling a double shift tomorrow. You're going to be hungover to hell and back, but that doesn't really matter. You'll be fine tomorrow, just like you've been fine for this year. A year since he died, a year since his last breath. That thought should be depressing, but you feel a little happier at the thought that you came to visit his grave. You're going to be doing that a bit more often. Next time you'll bring roses. You begin to walk away, glad you won't feel this horrible for another year. Well, you hope not. You did fine till now, right? It's just the date, the occasion, every little thing built up so that you were caught in the middle of a private storm. Speaking of storms, the rain is almost gone now, pattering down lightly. You go to leave the graveyard, casting one last glance back, and grin. A rainbow has formed, a huge, multicoloured one. The rainbow seems to fall down onto a grave, and you know that's impossible but you just don't care. The end of the rainbow. You marvel at it as you walk away, humming slightly. The bright colours light up the words on the grave.

**John Michael Dorian (JD)**

**Died age 31, taken way too soon by a knife**

**A fantastic person. The guy who killed him is long since behind bars, which makes us all feel a bit better.**

**JD….. I miss you. And thanks. Thanks for everything.**


End file.
